


Don't Ask Me What You Know Is True

by T Verano (t_verano)



Category: The Sentinel (TV)
Genre: Angst, Community: sentinel_thurs, M/M, Sentinel Thursday, song lyrics but only a few
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-29
Updated: 2013-06-29
Packaged: 2020-03-09 07:14:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18912118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/t_verano/pseuds/T%20Verano
Summary: In which a couple of lines from an INXS song do a pretty good job of describing Jim and Blair's relationship.





	Don't Ask Me What You Know Is True

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Sentinel Thursday challenge 479, 'Favorite Song'
> 
> Song-ficlet. (Grammarians be warned: I break and rebreak and rebreak a cardinal rule herein, and I don't even care. :-))
> 
> (Thanks, as always, to Becky's Sentinel Transcripts.)

The lazy spin of it, the incongruous redness sailing across the blue of sky, are hypnotic. For a moment you're back in the rainforest, standing on the bank of a muddy river, watching the flash of wings as birds flaunting feathers brighter than the pages of a child's coloring book cut through the air above your head.

Your eyes chase that lazy spin, but it's hard to capture, harder than the flight of any bird. It keeps slipping away from you. The ridges on the plastic curve into the rotation; you can see the lines but they blur into themselves as the plastic circle spins, spins…spins…

The next thing you know, you've got a face full of asphalt and the undercarriage of a fucking _truck_ rumbling over you, clearing your body by inches. You can almost feel the treads of the tires as they roll by, they're that fucking close to your hand.

And there's someone down here eating the street with you. Lying beside you, two idiots felled by a…

Jesus, a garbage truck?

[ _Oh, that really sucked, man!_ ]

What the goddamned Christ is going on here? And why was the _punk_ imitating a corpse beside you, playing chicken with a goddamned fucking garbage truck?

[ _It was that thing I was trying to warn you about —_ ]

The punk knew. The punk _knew_ this could happen.

…And he came after you to warn you. Saved your stupid neck, risking his own stupid neck to do it; he was right there beside you underneath the goddamned fucking garbage truck.

What the everlasting _Christ_ is going on here?

…. _I, I was standing, you were there_ ….

***********************************************

Simon thinks you're crazy. Hell, Simon _knows_ you're crazy. Decent judge of character, your boss.

This is the third time your unwanted houseguest has scrambled you eggs and toasted you toast for breakfast, and if you were smart you'd be a little more on guard. Sandburg's a bullshitter and a born manipulator, and you've seen him twist himself into a pretzel to get what he wants.

[ _Eggs are almost done, scrambled firm just the way you like them, right?_ ]

[ If you think this little courtship ritual here is going to change my mind about throwing your butt out of here... _No, no, no, no. If Larry can survive out there without a roof over his head, I'm, I'm sure that I can too._ ]

The problem is, that's not all you've seen.

It's fucking crazy. You're from different generations — Jesus, you're not even sure what his generation _is,_ between the hippie-dippie Sixties shit and the grunge, the age on his driver's license and the age he turns into around a pretty woman. 

Different generations? Different worlds.

Fuck that, different _planets._ Flip through a travel brochure for Planet Sandburg and you get the exact opposite of anywhere you've ever wanted to travel — of everything you grew up with, of anything you've ever worked for, stood for, believed in…

…He makes good eggs. Decent coffee. 

And he _cares._ You're not always crazy about what he cares about — research, experiments, pretty women, thesis, pretty women, research — but he's got a soft heart when it counts, and a smart mouth, and bigger balls than half the guys in your platoon, even if he seems to see himself as Wimpy the Wabbit most of the time. 

He thinks on his feet. 

What he believes in isn't maybe so different from what you believe in after all, at least some of it. 

Even when he's exasperating, he's entertaining, which is pretty fucking fortunate since he's the most exasperating person you've ever met. 

He's got a nice ass.

He's got a very nice ass. Nice blue eyes. Good hands. There's a spot just at the base of his throat you want to sink your teeth into — not too hard, just hard enough. 

You don't even mind the hair; it makes Simon want to haul out his razor and give the guy a buzz cut, but it makes you want to thread your fingers into it and tug him a little closer.

So. Here you are. This is the third morning your not so unwanted houseguest has made you breakfast, and Simon's fucking right.

It's crazy.

You're crazy.

_This_ — whatever this is, this Sandburg "zone" — is completely fucking crazy.

…. _Two worlds collided_ ….

***********************************************

He still looks bruised. It's been weeks, and he still looks fucking bruised all the time. Marks on his skin would've faded by now, but these bruises run deeper than that, much deeper. You should know. You put a lot of them there yourself.

He shifts on the bed next to you, muttering something unintelligible in his sleep, fingers twitching against your ribcage. You cover his hand with yours and rub your thumb over the twitching fingers until they stop moving. He doesn't wake up. That's good. He's been sleeping worth shit and he needs to sleep.

You were wrong, you were so goddamned wrong.

[ _I apologize for this deception. My only hope is that I can be forgiven for the pain I've caused those that are close to me._ ]

He was wrong too, but he stuck by you. Sandburg, glue, same difference — why the hell did it take Simon to finally make you see that?

Now, there's a conversation you never want to have again, but still, you owe the man a box of cigars. He was watching Blair. You weren't.

You were, but you weren't _seeing._

[ _Where do I get off following you around for three years pretending I was a cop, right?_ ]

So if a brush with death turns Simon Banks into Dear Abby for an hour, and it turns out Dear Abby has a shitload of observations from the past couple of years, a shitload of conclusions, and isn't shy about sharing any of it, and you actually listen…

Simon was right. Sandburg, glue, same difference. You've done your best (Christ, your _worst_ ) to drive Blair away more than once now, and he doesn't leave. 

You don't want him to leave. You don't want him to ever leave. 

…He doesn't want to be a cop. That still hurts. Still pisses you off a little. But hell, it's only fair — his dreams got flushed down the toilet, why the fuck shouldn't yours get flushed along right after them? Anyway, he's right. You didn't want to see it, even Simon didn't want to see it, but Blair's right. Too much water under that bridge. Way too fucking much water.

His eyelashes flutter almost imperceptibly and his fingers start twitching again. You rest your forehead against the top of his head, and again he doesn't wake, but the twitching eases. Jesus God, you never want him to leave.

You'll find a way. You and Simon will find a way to make something work. You have to.

You will.

Another mumble, but this time it's easy to understand [ _Jim_ ], as he shifts again restlessly until his knee nudges your thigh and he settles. He hasn't left, your neo-hippy witchdoctor punk, he's fucking never left.

_He doesn't leave._

You don't ever want him to.

… _. And they could never tear us apart_ ….

**Author's Note:**

> Lyrics from the INXS classic, "Never Tear Us Apart." The title is also from phrases in the lyrics.
> 
> _I, I was standing, you were there_  
>  Two worlds collided  
> And they could never tear us apart 


End file.
